


Impermanence

by Rainne



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, I don't know what else to tag, M/M, Open to suggestions, loss of serum, one (1) transphobic 'joke', slices of life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 18:58:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14551263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainne/pseuds/Rainne
Summary: The first hint Steve had that something was wrong was when Natasha complained about his shirts being too big.





	Impermanence

The first hint Steve had that something was wrong was when Natasha complained about his shirts. “They used to be too small, Steve, what happened?” she asked one day, poking him in the pec. “I miss it when they were too small.”

Not in the mood, Steve replied, “I miss it when I could work out without being sexually harassed.” He shrugged her off and refocused on the punching bag in front of him.

“Me- _yow_ ,” Natasha replied, but wandered away and hopped onto a treadmill, leaving him alone.

After she was gone, he studied the fit of his shirt. She was right; it was looser. He made his way into the locker room and climbed onto the scale there, discovering to his surprise and dismay that he’d lost ten pounds. Was he not eating enough? He didn’t think his habits had changed, but maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to monitor them more closely and maybe have an extra protein shake or two. He resolved to keep an eye on it and left the tower, heading home to Brooklyn.

-o-

The second hint Steve had that something was wrong, about a week later, was when he tripped on the toe of his sneaker because it was, quite suddenly, about a thumb-pinch too small. He measured this by pinching the toe of his shoe the way his Ma used to do, and then he did the same with his dress shoes and his uniform boots. All three of them yielded the same result. Just about a thumb-pinch too small.

They’d fit perfectly yesterday – or at least, he was pretty sure they had. He hadn’t tripped on them, anyway. He chewed on his lip, considering this in conjunction with his lost weight – weight that hadn’t come back despite Steve’s improved diet.

Something in the pit of Steve’s stomach went cold.

-o-

The third hint Steve had that something was wrong was when Bucky complained that his pants were sagging in the butt and it made it harder to ogle him from across the room when he was at his easel. Steve didn’t mind being sexually harassed by his boyfriend/common-law husband, so he was less cross about it. But it still laid on his mind.

Steve waited until Bucky was out of the apartment to examine the fit of his pants in the mirrored closet door. They were definitely saggy in the ass, but the last time he’d worn this particular pair, they’d hugged him like a second skin.

He didn’t bother to even consider weighing himself again; he was pretty sure what he would find.

-o-

Steve got a pencil and stood with his spine straight against the bedroom doorjamb. He rested the pencil on top of his head and drew a careful line on the white paint, then stepped back and grabbed a tape measure. He’d lost two inches.

He was still leaning against the hallway wall, contemplating that line in conjunction with everything else, when Bucky came back from the bodega with the makings for dinner. “Steve?” Bucky asked, putting the bags down in the kitchen and rounding the pass-through to come stand beside him. “What’s going on?”

Steve pointed at the line on the wall, where he’d carefully labeled his new height. Bucky blinked at it for a long minute and then said, “You’ve lost two inches.”

“Yeah, I have,” Steve agreed.

“Take your shirt off,” Bucky said.

Steve complied, and Bucky examined him carefully, wrapping his hands around Steve’s waist and then running them down his back. “You’re getting smaller here, too,” he said. “That’s why your shirts suddenly fit right and your pants sag around your ass. Your clothes are too big.”

“Yeah, they are,” Steve agreed. “So’re my shoes. And I’ve been losing weight.”

“Well,” Bucky says slowly, “looks like the serum isn’t permanent after all.”

“Yeah, it does,” Steve agreed.

“Well,” Bucky said slowly, “at least they have medicine for asthma now. I saw a kid with an inhaler in the store once not long ago.”

“Yeah, they do,” Steve agreed. Then he finally turned to face Bucky. “I can’t be Captain America any more, I guess.”

“Well, you sure as hell won’t be able to go on missions any more,” Bucky agreed. “Not without the serum. But you can still run ops and help with the planning and all that. You were goddamn brilliant before the serum, you’ll still be brilliant after.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Steve temporized. “Or… or maybe I could do something else.”

“What would you do?” Bucky asked. Then he followed Steve’s gaze to the easel by the window. “Yeah, you could definitely do that. Hell, you could do both. It’s not like missions are a daily occurrence.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Steve agreed. He took a deep breath. “I’ve got to tell the others. We’ve got to decide what to do.” He looked over at the wall where his shield hung. “Somebody’s going to have to take the shield.”

“I sure as hell don’t know who it’d be,” Bucky says, but shakes his head at Steve’s speculative look. “Stevie,” he points out, “if your serum ain’t permanent, neither is mine.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t ever little,” Steve points out.

“No, but I’m gonna lose the super healing and all just like you will. I can stay on the field team as a sharpshooter, just like Clint, but I won’t be able to get down in the scrum any more.”

“Point,” Steve replied. “Okay. Let’s see what the others say before we make any decisions.”

-o-

“Okay,” Tony said from behind one of his holographic screens about a week later. “You’ve lost two and a half inches and twenty pounds. We need to keep an eye on you so that we know how fast this is happening; I want you to keep measuring at home just like you’ve been doing. Say, every few days? And let me know the next time you lose height or clothing size so we can weigh and measure you again.”

Steve nodded. “Can do.”

Tony leaned around the screen. “How long has it been for you, since you got the serum?”

Steve paused, considering. “Okay, I got the serum ‘39 and went into the ice in ‘45. Then I woke up in 2011, and it’s 2015 now, so about ten years.”

Tony nodded, then looked at Bucky. “Best guess for you?”

Bucky paused, considering. “Steve rescued me in ‘40, and I fell in ‘45, so that’s five years. According to the files the Russians and Hydra kept on me, I spent _maybe_ a year, total, outside of cryo, and then it’s been a year since everything, so… seven years?”

Tony nodded again, going back to his screen and typing a whole bunch of things very fast. “Jarvis,” he said, “get me scans of both of them, and compare to the historical stuff. I want to know differences to the millimeter.” He looked over at the two of them. “I need you to give blood samples to Bruce so we can look at serum levels in your blood.” He paused. “And his, too, come to think of it.”

“Oh,” Steve said softly, realizing what Tony had. “The Hulk.”

“Yeah,” Tony agreed. He hummed softly, rubbing at his chin as he thought. “I wonder if it was the ice,” he said suddenly. “If being frozen made the serum work overtime to keep you alive, and now it’s just… gone.”

“What, like we ran out?” Bucky asks. “Then I’ll start to fade the same as Steve?”

“Well, there’s a difference,” Tony said. “For one thing, you losing the serum will be a lot less noticeable because you were already a healthy adult when you got it. We’ll need to watch about your ability to carry the arm – if it gets too heavy, I can make you a new one with lighter materials – but otherwise, you didn’t really get a lot of the _visible_ changes that Steve did.”

“Yeah, you can’t really see super strength or super healing,” Steve said, nodding.

“Good point,” Bucky agreed. “So how will I know if it’s running out?”

“We’ll test your blood as often as we test Steve’s and see what we can find out.” Tony nodded. Then he made shooing motions at the two of them. “Go see Bruce.”

-o-

The next day, in a small conference room, Bruce put a slide up on one of Tony’s holographic screens for everyone to see. “All right,” Sam asked, “what am I looking at?”

“Serum levels,” Bruce replied. He pointed at one set of bars on the graph. “This is mine; you can see how the levels of the various substances are either really high or off the charts.” Everyone nodded. Then Bruce pointed at the middle set of bars. “This is Bucky’s; he’s got far less of most substances – but he still has more than Steve.” Bruce pointed at the third set of bars. “If I had to guess, I’d say we’re going to see all of these levels continue to drop in both Steve and Bucky until they reach zero, at which point they’ll both be back to their pre-Serum selves.”

“So, is Steve gonna be all sickly again?” Clint wanted to know.

“One of the benefits of living in 2015,” Tony said, “is modern medicine. Also dependable heat, good food, health insurance, all those things. So Steve is going to be small again, but he won’t be sickly. He’ll be a _healthy_ person, just… you know, twink-y.”

“Twinkie?” Bucky asked. “Isn’t that one of those godawful snack cake things?”

“In this case, it refers to a gay man who is small and rather androgynous,” Natasha explained.

“Oh, you mean he’ll be a punk again,” Bucky said.

Steve smiled, his eyes going distant. “I always kind of missed being a fairy,” he admitted.

Clint twitched. “That’s really offensive, though.”

“Not if I choose the label myself,” Steve replied. “When we were young, a punk or a fairy was specifically what Tony just called a twinkie. Well, I don’t want to be a twinkie. If I want to call myself a punk or a fairy, that’s my right. Just like people who choose to call themselves queer.”

“It’s twink,” Tony corrected. “Not twinkie. And when did you get so knowledgeable about labels and things?”

“Tony,” Steve said, sounding tired, “I’ve been in this century since 2011. I’ve been introduced to the Internet, Facebook, Tumblr, blogs, and all sorts of other things. I’ve watched documentaries and listened to TED talks. I’ve even, for my sins, been to queer social group meetings. I know this will come as a surprise to you, but you are not the only person I rely on to teach me the ways of the twenty-first century.”

“You know what I missed?” Bucky said into the silence that followed. “I missed how cute you looked in dresses.”

Steve grinned. “I’m gonna look even cuter now.” Then he looked around the room. “Not to change the subject, but I’m going to change the subject. Who’s taking the shield?”

All around the room, fingers went to noses and there was an almost unison exclamation of “Not it!”

“I thought maybe Bucky could,” Steve continued, inexorable. “But if he’s losing his serum, too, then he can’t do it. He’ll need to stay up high like Clint.”

“The only other person who has the serum is Bruce, though,” Sam said. “And he can’t do it because he’s busy being the Hulk.”

“What if we retire the shield?” Natasha suggested. “Frankly, Steve, you’re Cap. You’ll always be Cap, even if you’re small. I don’t think there’s anyone else – right now, at least – who _could_ pick the shield up and step into your shoes – serum or no serum. I’m not sure the public would _accept_ someone else as Cap.”

Bucky waved a hand. “Let’s table it for now. We can work it out when the time comes.”

“The time is now,” Bruce said softly. “Steve, I don’t think it’s safe for you to continue to fight.”

Steve nodded. “Then let’s hope I don’t need to.”

-o-

Over the next several (fortunately quiet) weeks, Steve continued to shrink. Once he had become noticeably smaller – three clothing sizes and a shoe size down, plus another inch of height lost – it was officially time to have a press conference and announce the bad news to the world.

“Thank you all for coming,” Steve said as he stepped up onto a small box behind the podium set up in front of Avengers Tower. His teammates ranged out behind him in support. “I have some bad news to share with you all and I would appreciate it if you would all let me say my piece and hold your questions until the end.”

He paused, looking around at the assembled reporters to make sure his message was understood, then looked down at his note cards and back up. “Some of you may have noticed that I’m looking a little smaller these days. That’s because I am. Apparently the serum I received in Project Rebirth was not permanent, and as its strength wanes, I am returning to the body I had prior to my involvement in that project.”

A murmur of shock rippled through the assembled crowd. Steve waited for it to die down before continuing. “My teammates and I have held a number of discussions about this matter, and I am sorry to announce that as of today, I am hanging up my shield and retiring as Captain America.”

The reporters burst out with questions, shouting over one another, and Steve held up his hands until they quieted. “One at a time, please,” he said. “My hearing is already starting to go.”

Hands went up all around, and Steve pointed at one of them. “Captain Rogers, who is going to take over as Captain America?”

“No one yet,” Steve replied. “None of my teammates wanted the job – not that I can blame them – so the shield will be retiring as well until we can find someone suitable for the position.”

“Captain,” asked the next reporter, “what will you do now that you’re not saving the world any more?”

Steve smiled. “I’ll continue to work with the Avengers,” he said. “But now I’ll be working in a support and advisory capacity rather than being on the field team.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And I might go back to school. I never graduated from high school, so I’m thinking about getting my GED, and maybe going to college.”

“What about the Winter Soldier?” another reporter asked. “We saw in the documents that were released last year that he had also received the serum; is his also fading?”

Steve glanced over at Bucky, who nodded, coming over to the podium and leaning toward the mass of microphones. “Yes,” he admitted. “Fortunately, most of my field skills don’t rely on strength and super healing, so I’ll be okay to stay on the team.”

“Do you know why the serum is fading?” came another question.

Steve shook his head. “Not for certain, but the current prevailing theory is that our bodies – mine and Bucky’s both – had to work so hard to keep us alive in the ice that we just… ran out.”

“Will that happen to you, too, Dr. Banner?” someone wanted to know.

Bruce took Steve’s place at the podium. “So far as I can tell, if it does happen, it will be a very long time from now. I’ve had my version of the serum for _far_ less time than either Steve or Bucky, so I don’t anticipate any changes in myself. We are keeping watch, though, just in case.”

There were many more shouted questions, but at last Steve called a halt to the proceedings and the Avengers, as a group, went back into the building.

Once they were back upstairs, Steve collapsed onto a chair and looked down at his feet. “I need new clothes,” he said after a minute of quiet. “I feel like I’m wearing clown shoes.”

“Jarvis,” Tony said.

“Captain, if you’ll stand up and allow me to scan you, I can determine your clothing sizes and have some things ordered for you.”

Steve pushed himself to his feet. “Not too much, though, Jarvis,” he said. “Maybe just a couple pairs of jeans and a few shirts. One pair of sneakers. I’m going to shrink some more, so there’s no sense in wasting a bunch of money on clothes I’ll only be able to wear for a little while.”

“Understood, Captain,” Jarvis said. “I’ve taken the liberty of arranging them to be delivered to your home in Brooklyn; they should be there when you return this evening.”

“Thanks, Jarvis,” Steve said.

-o-

Almost four months to the day after Natasha noticed Steve’s shirts getting looser, he had his first asthma attack since 1939. He’d been five-foot-six-and-a-half for eight days and had finally begun building a wardrobe for his new, smaller self. It seemed like all his ailments had returned at once; hehad been fitted with orthopedic shoe inserts for his flat feet, and had received a hearing aid for the loss that was returning to his left ear. He had glasses for his astigmatism, medicine for his stomach ulcers, medicine for his heart condition (arrhythmia, they said, something called AFib), and iron supplements for his anemia.

He’d been hoping against hope that the asthma, at least, would leave him alone, but alas: he recognized the symptoms coming on in the Tower elevator and fumbled in his pocket for the little plastic inhaler that the doctor had insisted he keep in his pocket. “It’s just in case, all right?” the lung doctor had said. “It may not come back – we’ll hope for that. But if it does, you know as well as I do that you can die from an attack. Better to be overprepared than to die, all right?”

Turned out, the doctor was right.

The only thing that hadn’t come back was the fatigue Steve had always felt; the heart doctor said that was because his other conditions were well-controlled by medication, and because he wasn’t suffering from malnutrition any more. “You’d be amazed by what a difference it makes just to have access to the kinds of good food you didn’t have in the 1930s.”

Steve smiled wryly. “Not really.”

The doctor laughed at that. “No, I suppose not.”

Bucky took the whole thing in stride. “You’ve always been a hundred pounds of attitude in a ninety-pound sack,” he said simply. “Now the outside just matches what I remember, that’s all.”

But ninety pounds wasn’t what Steve weighed any more – and that was where differences came in. He now weighed 130 pounds, and he could bench press a hundred pounds – far more than the thirty he was able to manage in 1939. “You work out a lot,” Bruce said when Steve mentioned the difference. “A lot of your new muscle wasn’t the serum, it was you keeping fit. I’m not surprised that you’re still fit. If you keep working out – within your current capacity – you’ll probably stay just as fit as you are right now.”

The lung doctor agreed. “It’ll help with the asthma, too,” he said. “The fitter you are, the better off you’ll be. Just don’t overdo it; that can bring on an attack. But I suppose you know that.”

“I do,” Steve agreed. “I’ll be careful.”

-o-

“Careful?” Bucky repeated later. “ _You?!_ ”

-o-

Even after ten years away, returning to his old body was like slipping into a well-worn favorite pair of jeans. Steve supposed that it was due, at least in part, to the gradual reduction in size and strength; he had the opportunity to ease into the change, rather than struggling with it happening all at once as it did when he climbed into Howard Stark’s machine.

“I think I missed being small,” he said to Bucky one night, not long after that first asthma attack, as they lay in bed together with Bucky playing big spoon. “I didn’t miss being sick all the time, but I missed being small.”

Bucky ran a hand down Steve’s side. “I missed you being small,” he admitted. “Not that you weren’t gorgeous and perfect big, but… yeah. I missed you being small.”

Steve rolled over in Bucky’s arms, stretching up to kiss him. “I missed the way you made me feel,” he admitted. “Warm and safe.”

Bucky tightened his arms around Steve. “You know I’ll always keep you safe.”

“Even when you’re talking me into taking a ride on the Cyclone,” Steve teased.

Bucky laughed. “Even then.”

-o-

The first time Steve showed up at the Tower in a skirt, Tony almost got punched in the face. “There she is,” he sang, a little off-key. “Miss America,” and Clint had to grab Steve, pulling him back.

“What the fuck, Tony?” Bruce demanded, and he so rarely swore that everyone froze, turning to look at him. “That’s not funny.”

Tony held up both hands. “You’re right,” he said. “You’re right, that was fucked up. I’m sorry. To everyone, but especially Steve.”

Steve nodded once. “Apology accepted,” he said, a little stiffly.

Clint, once he was sure Steve wasn’t going to go for Tony’s throat, let go of him. “I like the outfit,” he said, giving Steve a quick once-over. “It’s cute.” Then he tilted his head. “Never knew you had such knobby knees, though.”

Steve laughed a little self-consciously. “Yeah, they’ve always been like that. Even when I was big.”

“Could be worse,” Clint replied, shrugging, and he grinned at Steve, who grinned back.

-o-

And then there was a Doombot incursion, and Steve, for the first time, sat in the control room with Maria, using Tony and Bucky’s suit cameras to work out the best tactical plan while Maria coordinated with the Fantastic Four (since this was technically their fight, but the more people who fought against the ‘bots, the less property damage usually resulted).

It wasn’t the same as being out there, and Steve’s hands itched for his shield the whole time, but it worked, and it proved to everyone that the finest tactical mind in a century didn’t belong to Captain America; it belonged to Steve Rogers, a little punk from Brooklyn who never finished high school and was too dumb to run away from a fight.


End file.
